


Healing the scars

by aimeewrites



Category: Chalet School - Elinor M. Brent-Dyer, Grantchester (TV), Holby City
Genre: England in 1950, F/F, not quite AU but
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:47:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22017355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimeewrites/pseuds/aimeewrites
Summary: in post-war Britain, life goes on. After her husband's death, Amelia Davenport has to learn to stand up for herself.Bernie Wolfe, recently demobbed, has no plans and no place to live...
Comments: 12
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've had to alter the timeline slightly - it's not 1957 but 1950. I already wrote about Amelia in Lady in Mourning - this is another story altogether, although I guess Bernie's war experiences are modelled on those of one of my heroines in my novel As War Goes By . 
> 
> Comments very welcome as I'm not quite sure this will work !

Grantchester , 1950

Amelia

She would have to do something. Asking Will for money was out of the question – he would help, of course he would, but she wanted to stand on her own to feet. She would not depend on someone anymore. Now that she had “recovered” from her husband’s death, she had to think of moving on. She had thought of getting a job, but she was not qualified for anything. She could probably find work as a housekeeper – maybe as a school matron – and if she really had to, she would, but…

The idea came as she was dusting the bookshelves in the spare room – no one ever used it, but dust gathered anyway. The house was too big for her. She had protested at first when Will had told her he would have to sell the estate to cover the debts. Her home for thirty years – she had arrived as a young and naïve bride, and she would leave as a… As what, exactly, she wasn’t sure – as the shell of the woman she once was. All the aspirations and hopes she had had as a new wife had been trampled on over the years – all the insults, all the blows still resonated in her and she had no hope of ever forgetting. Her son was the only good thing to come out of her union. Even anger at her late husband had long disappeared – he wasn’t worth it. She had learnt to survive over the years , and she would try to make the best of things. And the cottage bought for her by Will after the sale of the estate was her best chance of survival. What use was a spare room if no one ever came to visit? Her late husband had taken care of alienating her from all her old schoolfriends, and the people who had come to visit them had come to visit “the Davenports” and had all too readily discarded her after her husband’s death. She would find a lodger – the bombings had left so many people homeless that five years after the end of the war, the government still struggled to rehome everyone. She went downstairs and wrote several cards. She would distribute them at the baker’s, the butcher’s and maybe leave one on the noticeboard at Will’s church. Surely someone would answer. Grantchester wasn’t very far from Cambridge – maybe a student, or a nice retired professor…She had lived with a tyrant almost all her adult life – surely a lodger couldn’t be any worse?

…….

London, 1950

I’ve always hated goodbyes. We never said goodbye during the war – much better to say “till we meet again”, or “au revoir”, like the French. And yet, there was no insurance against death – no guarantee. There I was – nearly a war widow, no qualifications to speak of, and about to find myself on the streets if I didn’t find lodgings soon. All the others seemed to have somewhere to go – some of the younger ones went back to their parents, others left to get married… I already felt like I had outstayed my welcome in the Waaf. The war had been over for nearly five years – it was probably time to stop playing soldiers and to get a real job. When I had come back… Well, I had been one of the lucky ones – so many of us did not make it. But we had been warned – the life span of a SOE agent in France was limited. I had chosen to go, I bore the scars, but I was alive. I had had no thoughts for the future when I had become a Secret Agent Executive in 1942. My husband was dead, my children had been evacuated to my aunt and uncle’s and I knew they were in safe hands. Now- now, I had survived, and I had the rest of my life to think about. For the last years, I had worked for the Waaf in London, or rather, Uxbridge. Some would consider it a really cushy position – signing passes, filling forms, inspecting barrack rooms…A lot of saluting, a lot of “yes, Ma’am, no, Ma’am”… I found it tedious to the utmost, almost unbearable after what I’d been through.

When I’d married Marcus, I had said goodbye to my career plans - I’d been the first woman of my family to attempt higher education, and after I’d finished my degree at Cambridge, I’d planned on teaching – maybe even one day become a lecturer. And I guess I threw all that away. I did get two children out of the bargain, I suppose – now very much grown-up – and a few years of marriage. I soon discovered that it was not… Well, I don’t know what I had been expecting, but life with Marcus had certainly not been a fairytale. We’d rubbed shoulders well enough, I suppose, but…I could not describe what we had as love – because now, I know. Now that I’ve fallen in love with someone, and… No – this is no time for remembrance. I can’t think about Alex. It wouldn’t do to cry. Stiff upper lip, old girl! I had to leave the barracks by the end of the week, and I still had no place to live. For the first time in many years, I had no plans, nowhere to be.

\---

Grantchester

“ Quiet middle-aged lady looking for lodger. Reasonable rent. Phone GRA 1218 or come to 2, Laurel Lane btw 5 and 7 pm”

There – surely she would find someone suitable! At least she was on the phone – Will had insisted. She had posted four ads in the village and not said anything to her son in case he tried to dissuade her. He was too much like his father sometimes – telling her what was good for her. Thankfully, he had not inherited Thomas’ love of drinking and gambling, nor his propensity for violence. She had thought so many times that her husband would kill her in a mad bout of rage that she still could not quite believe she was still alive and he was dead. So many things had happened during the last year. No more crumbling old house, but also no more staff – just a skivvy a few hours twice a week. It had been a steep learning curve – getting used to do her own shopping, her own cooking. She didn’t mind – it took her mind off things. He cooking skills needed improving, though – she had never learnt, and even with the help of recipes, the results were not fantastic. Since rationing was still in progress, she had tried to concentrate on the basics – one couldn’t waste food. Hopefully her new lodger wouldn’t want her to cook – she would have to make that clear from the beginning. Maybe they could work out a rota for the use of the kitchen.


	2. Chapter 2

I would go back to Cambridge – try to find lodgings there. Thank God petrol rationing had just ended. My only luxury was my car…An old Aston that had belonged to my father – part of my inheritance. I would rather have them alive and no car, but the bombs had fallen on the house, not on the garage. I had no home, no family except two children who did not give a damn about me, and not a lot of money. I could go wherever I pleased, do whatever I wanted. Maybe I could find a job there – just mention my last job in London… Maybe invent myself a war – there was no way I would tell the truth to potential employers – I had experience in lying… Even under torture, I had not yielded.

I bundled all my belongings in my car – that is, two suitcases – and drove off in the early morning hours. By midday, I was in Cambridge. By the evening, I was thoroughly exhausted, still homeless, and my leg hurt like hell. After the three bullets the Nazis had lodged into it, I was lucky it had not been amputated, but it would never be like before. I found a hotel room and during dinner, I contemplated my situation. I had visited six potential lodgings, and although I did not consider myself particularly picky, I could not imagine living in any of them. Two of them were only slightly better than the Gestapo cells I had had the reluctant pleasure of inhabiting for a while. The landladies of three others had so many rules it would be like being in the Waaf all other again – I did not intend on having any male callers but I certainly didn’t want anyone telling me I couldn’t. And the last one would have emptied my savings in a month. I had not stayed in London because the prices were too steep and the available lodgings too few, and I was beginning to realise that it was the same in Cambridge.

After a mostly sleepless night – lumpy mattress, and I never slept well in a new place anyway, I considered my options. Try again? Go elsewhere? The breakfast was hardly edible – weak tea, powdered eggs and soggy toast – I’d had worse, but not when paying for it. I decided I would go for a drive – it usually helped me to clear my head.

One hour later, I was cursing my car – and no, I had not named it – and standing on the side of the road contemplating the tyre neatly pierced by a bit of wrought iron that had somehow found its way on my path. Half an hour later, my beige slacks were muddy-brown, my hands black, but the spare tyre was on. I needed tea – or coffee. Coffee would be even better – I’d got used to bowls of coffee with milk in France, and since I’d been back in England, I had been sorely disappointed in the taste of what passed as coffee. I drove to the next village and parked near the pub. I was about to go in when I spotted a sign, a little further away, for “Miss Brown’s tea-room”. Hmm… They would probably not appreciate the state of my outfit, but…

While I waited for my coffee and the scone I’d rashly ordered, I had a good look around. It had been a long time since I hadn’t seen that many doilies and embroidered cushions in one place. But the elderly woman who’d taken my order had not recoiled from the state of my trousers and had been surprisingly friendly. The coffee, when it came, was better than I expected, and the scone slightly worst – egg-less, butter-less and sugar-less, that is, tasteless. Before I left, I saw a noticeboard and decided to have a look…Beside the usual ads for “used child’s bicyle to sell” and “fresh eggs at Landon’s Farm” – so maybe the tea-room owner had not even read the ads in her own shop – I spied a more interesting one: “Quiet middle-aged lady looking for lodger. Reasonable rent. Phone GRA 1218 or come to 2, Laurel Lane btw 5 and 7 pm”. Hmm – I could always take a look. Since it was too early to go, I decided to go for a long walk in the fields.

At 4.45pm, I was back in the village – Grantchester, apparently – I had to hope all the signs had been put right since the war. I surveyed my outfit with growing dismay. I’d done my best to brush off the mud before my ramble, all for nothing. My boots were also caked with earth. Not the best way to impress a potential landlady, but it would have to do. I ran my hand through my hair and attempted to find Laurel Lane, not too difficult an endeavour considering the size of the village. Five minutes later, I was ringing the bell of an old stone cottage a stone’s throw from the church.

\----

When the doorbell rang, Amelia nearly jumped out of her skin. No one ever rang the doorbell – the few people who came to visit her all knew to go to the back door, usually unlocked. It took her a few seconds before she remembered her ad – she had put it up nearly two weeks previously and so far no one had taken any notice. She took a minute to look at herself in the mirror – redressed her collar, smoothed a strand of errant hair – there – she would do. She took a deep breath and opened the door. The sun had already set and she squinted a little at the woman who stood on her doorstep.

“Good – good evening. I’ve… I’ve seen your ad and I was wondering about the room?”

Goodness! She hadn’t been expecting someone as…Dishevelled to show up. Dirty trousers – tousled blonde hair – the woman even had a streak of mud on her cheek. But she couldn’t very well slap the door in her face, could she? So she beckoned her visitor inside and offered her a seat in the living-room. The woman offered to take her shoes off and she nodded fervently – at least the carpet would be spared.

\-----

I took my boots off and was horrified to see the hole in my right sock. Way to make a good impression, Bernie! I took off my coat and sat gingerly on the sofa, folding it besides me. My potential landlady had offered tea and while she was busy in the kitchen I observed my surrounding. There was something about this village and lace… Here too, doilies on the tables and antimacassars on the armchairs…too many. But I could live with that. I didn’t think the woman would take to me, though. Although she didn’t seem very much older than I was – from the ad, I’d expected someone in her sixties, she and I could star in a before/ after commercial. I wasn’t usually a slob, and I had cut a reasonable figure in uniform, but I knew today was not one of my best days appearance-wise. She, by contrast, was… Starchy. Posh, obviously. Not a hair out of place, not a single crease in her blouse, not a spot on her pink cardie, not a tiny hole in her nylons, from what I had seen. She came back with a loaded tray and I jumped up to help. She seemed surprised and reluctant to hand over the tray, so I sat awkwardly down while she put it down on the table. She poured two cups and sat down too in one of the armchairs. The silence was becoming heavy and I was considering making a run for it when she cleared her throat and spoke up: “I’m so sorry. You must think I’m an absolute fool – I haven’t even introduced myself – I’m Mrs Davenport.”

“Oh yes, of course – I’m sorry too. Flight Officer Wolfe, Ma’am – I mean…Berenice Wolfe. Sorry…”

“Pleased to meet you, Ms Wolfe – is it all right if …?

“Yes, yes – of course.”

“So – I – I have a spare room and – well, you see, this house is too big for me and …”

The woman seemed as embarrassed as I was. I decided to help her out – maybe using my rank would at least show her that I was not the guttersnipe the state of my clothes suggested. “I’m looking for lodging – I was recently demobbed and didn’t want to stay in London. Since I – I mean, before the war, we – my husband and I – we lived in Cambridge, so I thought I’d come back in the area.” I could see she wanted to ask, so I thought I would spare her the awkward question; “My husband died in 1941 – he was a pilot.”

“Oh – I am so sorry!” She paused for a minute and then blurted out: “My husband died too – not in the war – last year.”

I would have known anyway – the ring on her finger and the rather large photograph in a black frame of a portly man standing on the bookshelf, with dried flowers in front of it, had given her away. “My condolences”, I replied. Another awkward silence. I sipped my tea – I wasn’t that fond of Earl Grey, but it wasn’t too bad.

“Would you like to see the room?”

I started – I was still expecting her to tell me very politely that I wasn’t quite the right sort of person for her to be sharing her home with.

“Yes – yes, of course.”


	3. Chapter 3

We stood up and as she went up the stairs first, my hand brushed accidentally against her arm. She flinched and I wondered why. I’d probably never know. She was too polite not to go through the whole process – she would show me the room, tell me she would contact me in a few days, and I’d never hear from her again.

The room was much as I had expected – an attic bedroom with a single bed, pristine white sheets and a woollen blankie, an armchair with its antimacassar, a writing desk and a bookshelf with a few leather-bound editions, and a huge wardrobe.

“She did not shut it properly because she knew that it is very silly to shut oneself into a wardrobe, even if it is not a magic one.” Ooops! I did not realise I’d said that aloud.

“Always winter but never Christmas…” I turned to my companion, who had replied in the same hushed tone. And then, I couldn’t help it: “If you've been up all night and cried till you have no more tears left in you - you will know that there comes in the end a sort of quietness. You feel as if … “Nothing was ever going to happen again.” We finished in unison and looked at each other in wonder. Apparently, we had the same childhood references…And we did not remember the happiest quotes either. I resisted the urge to add another one and decided to try and help my case – suddenly I very much wanted the room. What I had seen in Mrs Davenport’s eyes just now made me feel there was a real human being behind the poster girl for the WI. And somehow she intrigued me.

“This is a lovely room, Ma’am.”

It was freezing, but I didn’t say anything.

“Thank you – I’ll show you the bathroom – we would have to share, I hope it’s all right?”

“Yes – yes, of course.”

After sharing with dozens of other women in the barracks, I was quite prepared to with just one. She led the way downstairs and we stood in the hall – there it was – the moment where she would send me off…

“Do you want the room, Ms Wolfe?”

I just stopped myself from gawping at her and nodded: “I do – I haven’t even asked you how much it was.”

She named a sum – not too expensive, but not cheap either. I must have grimaced slightly for she immediately added that we could of course discuss it. I really needed a place to live… “Maybe I could help around the house? With the war…I mean – I’ve learnt a few things.” Going upstairs, I’d noticed that parts of the cottage seemed quite shabby.”

“I’m sure we can come to an agreement, Ms Wolfe. When would you like to move in?”

I decided to go for broke: “Well – I gave up my lodgings in London. I stayed at a hotel yesterday, and of course, I can always find another one to give you a bit of time, but as soon as possible would be great, frankly, Mrs Davenport.”

I chewed on my lower lips – maybe I’d pushed too far. My new landlady had an air of… Frailty wasn’t exactly the right word – she wasn’t a doddery old soul. Maybe… Delicate, like a Royal Worcester teacup…

“You’re not going to spend money on an hotel, Ms Wolfe. I’ll put a hot water bottle in the bed, and you can move in right now.”

Wow! Wasn’t expecting that. Before she changed her mind, I told her I’d get my things from the car and went out.

\-------

“You can move in right now”. She must have lost her mind – she was asking a complete stranger to move in with her, without even asking her for references … Or an advance on the rent… Or… She was completely mad. Foolish – idiotic! Her late husband kept telling her she was a useless, stupid bitch – he was right… She could hear him in her head, berating her for a burnt meal, her appearance, and her… “inadequacies” in the bedroom…

All because she had seen something in Flight Officer Wolfe’s eyes that had reached her heart…And because the woman could quote CS Lewis…Oh well – it was too late to turn back. She had as good as given her word, and she never reneged. Mechanically, she seized a duster and went upstairs again, to use it on the already dust-less furniture of the spare bedroom. When she was satisfied, she went back to the kitchen and put the kettle on again to prepare a hot bottle. Would her new lodger expect supper? She took a quick mental inventory of the contents of the fridge and larder. Her neighbour, Mrs Hopkins, had given her half a dozen fresh eggs that morning, and she had potatoes and carrots in the larder. Enough for two. In fact, she probably ought to offer, and then explain that afterwards the woman would have to fend for herself.

\------

When I came back with my suitcases and I took them upstairs to what would be my new abode, I suddenly felt exhausted. The almost sleepless night yesterday and the walking today had drained my energy – I should never have done so much, my leg was giving me gyps and I knew I might be in for another uncomfortable night if I was still in pain. Soaking in a hot bath might have help, but I wasn’t going to do that on the first night of our cohabitation. Mrs Davenport had told me to make myself at home, just mentioning self-consciously that “maybe we should consider the bedrooms private”. I had nodded and assured her that I would not intrude on her privacy. I hesitated – would it be ruder to stay in my room all evening or to go and sit in the living-room for a while? I was pondering the question when I heard a gentle knock on my door. I jumped up, stifling a groan of pain as my leg protested and found my landlady outside.

“I was wondering if you’d like a little supper? Not much, but…”

“Oh – well, actually, that would be great – I’ll register at the shops tomorrow and I can repay the favour…”

Mrs Davenport made a denegation gesture: “Don’t worry – my neighbours gives me eggs, and the garden helps too.”

“Oh well – thank you, then.”

I followed her down the stairs and offered my help but she refused. Feeling awkward, I went to the living-room where The Third Programme was on the wireless. I sat on the sofa, closed my eyes and listened – for a minute, I was…Almost at peace. It had been years since anyone had prepared a meal for me…In fact, the last person who had fed me, in her farmhouse in France, had been Alex…Memories shattered my brief moment of serenity…I could still taste the fresh bread and the butter we had shared in her kitchen, one bite for her, one bite for me…A smothered exclamation coming from the kitchen jolted me out of my bittersweet reminiscences. I got up and went to see if my help was needed. I found my new landlady holding her left hand in her right one, with tears of pain streaming on her cheeks. I wasn’t going to ask her if she wanted my help… As gently as I could, I took her by the arm and led her to the sink, where I opened the cold tap. I guided her injured hand under the water: “There – leave in for at least five minutes.” I then closed put the copper pot responsible for the injury aside and the aga hob lid back down. Seizing a knife, I told her I would be right back and went into the garden. It wasn’t easy to find what I wanted in the dark, but I was pretty sure I had seen some earlier… Aha – there it was – elderflower. Alex had taught me about plants… Elderflower for burns… I came back into the kitchen to find Mrs Davenport still holding obediently her hand under the water. I was used to obeying too – the Waaf had taught me that – but I had the feeling my new landlady had learnt another kind of obedience – closer to submission…What had her bastard husband done to her? However, it wasn’t the time or place to inquire. I turned the water off and made her sit at the table. I took her wrist in my hand and applied the leaves and flowers on the angry red patch. She flinched, as she had done on the stairs, but she let me. She hadn’t said a word – hadn’t even looked at me.

“Do you have some bandages?” I asked. The flesh looked very raw.

“In the bathroom, under the basin”, she murmured. I went up and came back with the bandages. She hadn’t moved. I wrapped her hand carefully, taking care not to make it too tight.

“I’ll take care of supper – you just sit here and rest for a bit.”

I was no cook, but scrambled eggs and potatoes I could do. In a few minutes, the eggs were sizzling in the pan and the potatoes in the aga.

“Thank you”, she said in a low voice.

I had my back to her and almost missed the next sentence: “I can’t remember who last took care of me.” Yes… I could have guessed that. Impulsively, and because I could hear so much sadness in her voice, I turned towards her, came closer and my lips brushed her wrists, just above the bandage. Then I quickly turned back to the stove. How stupid could I be? Did I really want her to throw me out? I took the two plates that were warming up on the aga and filled them with eggs. Then I brought them to the table. At least she was still seating there – she hadn’t jumped in horror. I did not look at her as we both tucked in.

“Mmm – these are great – better than mine would have.”

Surely if she was praising my cookingb skills she wasn’t too shocked ?

“Someone in France once told me that I could burn water… But these aren’t too bad – and I haven’t had real eggs for ages – they are still hard to find in London.”

“We have plenty here – my neighbour keeps chickens.”

We kept talking about the village – I was a little flustered, so much in fact that I almost forgot the potatoes in the oven but I managed to rescue them before they were burnt to a crisp. After supper, I did the washing up and insisted she went and put her feet up in the living-room. I’d felt exhausted before, I was now more than ready to go to bed. Once the dishes were all clean and dry, I said goodnight and went wearily up the stairs. As I predicted, I could not find a comfortable position to go to sleep. After an hour, I gave up and borrowed a book from the shelves. I probably fell asleep at some point for when I woke up, Christie’s “Evil under the Sun” was wedged under my cheek.


	4. Chapter 4

Goodness – did she really kiss her hand? Amelia must really be going bonkers – there was no way her new lodger would have done that. And yet…she had felt the soft pressure of the woman’s lips on her wrist. Or had she? As she went to bed that night, Amelia wondered again what she had done, inviting a complete stranger into her home – the home that had become a refuge ever since she had moved there. That take-charge attitude…She would not allow Flight Officer Wolfe to boss her around. She had had enough of that for a lifetime.

\----

I couldn’t hear any noise in the house. I went downstairs and found bread, butter and a pot of rosehip jam on the table, with a small “help yourself” note. I glanced out of the window and saw my landlady doing mysterious things in the garden – maybe pruning something, or hoeing… That was one thing I would definitely not be any good at. I still didn’t know what exactly I could do to earn a living… It wasn’t that I was untrained – I was just trained for the wrong things! Not much demand for silent killing, weapon handling, fieldcraft or sabotage in rural England – not even for radio-operating skills. And at my age, I really didn’t want to go back to university. Not that they would want me. After breakfast, I decided to go into the village – I didn’t want to crowd my landlady, and I needed to find an occupation. 

\----

When she came back from the garden, Amelia saw that her lodger had put everything back in the larder and had washed and dried her cup and saucer. On the note she had left, the woman had added: “Thank you! Out to look for work – be back late this afternoon. Have a good day.” She had on purpose gone to the garden to avoid facing her in the kitchen that morning, and now that she wouldn’t see the lodger for the rest of the day, Amelia found herself unexpectedly disappointed. She quickly chastised herself – the woman was paying her for the room, not being paid as a companion. Anyway, they probably wouldn’t have anything to talk about. They could talk about their late husbands or about a common taste for children’s books with talking animals and witches, but that wouldn’t last long. She wasn’t a very interesting person. Her husband had often told her that. She thought that maybe she used to, before she had got married, long ago – she had wanted to travel – she ha had dreams of maybe writing articles for magazines – not like a real journalist… More like a kind of travel writer. Her idols had been Pearl Buck and Alexandra David-Neel. That was all long gone… He had slowly but surely stifled all ambitions and all joie de vivre out of her.

\------

Nearly three weeks later, I was nearly at my wits’ end. I still hadn’t found a job, and although I wasn’t spending a lot, my nest egg was rapidly dwindling. I was even considering applying for secretarial work, even though I knew I was the last person suited for that. At least my lodgings seemed secure – we had developed a routine and we managed to share our living space with minimum trouble. I tried to keep out of her way as much as possible and usually went for punishing long rambles, ate a sandwich somewhere in the middle of it and came back at supper time. We hadn’t shared another meal. Somehow, each time we ran into each other, I felt…Odd. Destabilised. In other circumstances – if we hadn’t been living under the same roof in a small village, maybe I would have tried to know her better. But I couldn’t cope with having to find another place to live right now, so I didn’t try to probe under the cape of secrecy she had shrouded herself in. I decided to go to the library – the place was tiny, but not too badly stocked, and moderately warm – adequate to spend a couple of hours in.

After spending the whole morning and the early afternoon there, I stopped at the baker’s for a custard tart – I wasn’t hungry for lunch and this had been one of my favourite treats pre-war and I’d discovered they made delicious ones – with real eggs, and probably even real sugar…I started to queue behind two young women and although I didn’t want to be indiscreet, I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation….

“Poor Jeanne – such a pity she had to go back to France on such short notice. But I guess if there’s no one else to take care of her niece and nephew…”

“Poor kiddies! I mean, losing both their parents like that in a stupid accident…”

“Yes, I know… I wonder who will take the French classes though? I mean – the babes have Julie, but the Sixth and Spe Sixth… She can’t possibly take all of them.”

“Right – well, maybe the Abbess would? Or you could, Biddy…”

“Ha ha – no, ta very much – I’ll stick to History – my French’s all right, but I wouldn’t teach it – and I don’t have the time anyway. Nor does the Abbess. No, the Heads will have to advertise…”

“Gosh – that’s dire! Wonder who we’ll get saddled with this time…”

Maybe I should take my chance? After all, it wasn’t as if there were that many job offers waiting for me…And ages ago, that was after all what I had begun to train for… I’d make a pact with myself – if by the time I was served and got out of the shop the two were still around, I’d ask them. If not… Well, too bad.

A paper bag clutched in my hand, I got out of the shop in the biting cold – the inside had been quite warm, probably thanks to the oven that was on all day long. Surely no sane person would linger outside in such weather – I’d probably lost my chance…Or maybe not – I recognised the two young women just coming out of the haberdasher’s. I hurried to catch up with them.

“Good morning, I – I’m sorry to barge in like that, but – I was waiting in the bakery and couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. I’m not sure if – if I would be suitable, but I – I speak French” God – that wasn’t very convincing…I didn’t really want to go into details there and then, but… “My mother was French, so …” Bit better…

One of the young women – the one who’d been addressed as Biddy – smiled: “I’m Biddy O’Ryan! T’is grand to meet you,…”

“Berenice Wolfe”

“Berenice – you might just be the answer to our prayers!”

Faced with such enthusiasm, I immediately backtracked. “I mean – I’m not sure I can actually teach, but…”

“Listen – why don’t you come and meet the Heads?” That came from the other young woman. “ I’m Rhyll Everett, by the way – I teach gardening. I think you should at least try. And don’t worry – the Chalet School is a great place to work.”

The Chalet School? Strange name for a school in Cambridgeshire. And I couldn’t possibly go for a job interview in my creased slacks and jumper…

“You see, we – the school, I mean – we’re all about languages – that is, because the school started in Tyrol, so we have French days, and English days, and German days…”

The young woman gave me a detailed explanation, and I seemed to have agreed to come and see the Heads – because apparently there were two of those as well, although I didn’t get their names – just “the Abbess” and “Bill” – as I found myself following them to the school. Basically, the school had been started in Tyrol by a young woman named Madge Russell, some years ago, with a handful of pupils. It had grown exponentially, but the Anschluss had forced the staff and pupils to flee before the Nazis. They had first found themselves in Guernsey…And now, here, in Grantchester, due to some kind of problem with the drains – I didn’t inquire further, as Biddy O’Ryan was already quite talkative and hard to follow, although her slight Irish lilt gave her a very pleasant voice. All in all, the school had had quite an adventurous time of it. And… Maybe if I had to tell about my war – maybe they wouldn’t mind too much. They didn’t seem too stuffy or conventional.


	5. Chapter 5

The building currently housing the school was impressive – a huge, square-built house with Georgian windows, a climbing rose on white-washed walls, and well-kept lawns and flower beds. A big army hut stood in the grounds, some way away from the main house. My companions ushered me in and asked me to wait in a small room equipped with comfortable chairs and a well-stocked fireplace. I desperately tried to smarten up, but I couldn’t do much – espying myself in the mirror, I sighed. The Waaf officers would have had a field day with my appearance if I had dared present myself like that when I was a young recruit. And later, anyone under my command would have felt the sharp edge of my tongue… Oh well – I would be interviewing for a short-term position as a teacher – not for a place in the women’s services. I was at least clean – my slacks were a bit rumpled, and my jumper more than casual, but…

“Would you come with me, please? Miss Annersley and Miss Wilson will see you now.”

In her place of work, Biddy O’Ryan was suddenly much more proper – at least I had the names of the two heads. Oh well – here goes nothing – I stood up and followed her out.

I found myself in a biggish room which had obviously been a library before and now served as the head’s – or heads’ – office. Two ladies stood up when I came in. Biddy came in with me and before she left the room, I was astonished to see she seemed to have executed a small curtsey – or maybe she’d stumbled – that seemed more likely. The smaller, blonde-haired woman came towards me, hand outstretched: “Welcome to the Chalet School – I’m Hilda Annersley, and this is my co-head, Nell Wilson. Biddy told us you might be able to help us out.”

“Hi – Berenice Wolfe – pleased to meet you, Miss Annersley. Miss Wilson.”

I shook their hands and sat down – four armchairs were arranged around a small coffee table, which made the whole thing much more informal than a normal job interview. Not that I had attended many of those, but… There was something comfortable about the place and the two women. The blonde one who had greeted me first did look as stately and calm as her nickname – the Abbess – suggested. Her colleague – Bill – had a more boyish look and hair as white as snow, although she couldn’t be much older than I was, maybe even younger. I could see the complicity between them – it told of a long friendship interspersed with many trials, or maybe of something more. I couldn’t quite decide. Someone knocked at the door and a maid brought a tray with coffee and cakes. I accepted a cup but refused the cakes – I wasn’t sure that in my current state of nerves I could balance both on my lap. I had no idea why I suddenly found myself so nervous.

In answer to their questions, I began to talk about myself – not my favourite thing to do, but I had no choice if I wanted the job. I told them how my mother, being French, had ensured I could speak the language and how we had spent several holidays in Normandy when I was a child. I then explained how I had started to study the language at Cambridge and had left after three years to get married – without a degree, of course, as I was a woman. Hilda Annersley nodded: “I know what you mean…. I was at Oxford myself. Nell here was luckier – University of London.” I didn’t really want to explain any further, but somehow I felt I had to: “My husband was killed during the war – my parents too – and my children are very much grown up now – so – there’s only me.” I could feel the kindness in both women’s eyes and gathered they had experienced loss too.

“Oui – nous avons traversé une période sombre de l’histoire. Aujourd’hui est un nouveau jour, mais la guerre nous a coûté cher. Toutes mes condoléances, Madame. La mort est un grand mal – si c’était un bien, les dieux ne seraient pas immortels.”**

“Merci.” Suddenly my throat felt hoarse and I had trouble speaking. I could not – I would not cry. And yet, my voice broke as I went on.

The last person who had spoken those words to me was Alex, and the pain of remembering, the images flashing in my head were almost too much to bear. The conversation went on in French and I was relieved to see I was still as fluent as in my youth and during the war. The two heads also spoke amazingly good French for two British ladies. They explained that they had kept two German days per week and asked if I could speak German. Luckily, I was able to tell them that although I was far from fluent, my training during the war had included intensive German lessons, and the few words we exchanged in that language seemed to satisfy them. I did not tell them why I had to use French and German during the dark years – if they had asked, I would have confessed everything – or as much as I could without compromising my promise to uphold the Official Secret Act. I could only pray they would think I had served my country to the best of my abilities. After about forty-five minutes, Miss Annersley asked me if I would mind waiting a few minutes in the other room. While I waited, I tried to gather my thoughts – although I thought I had done as well as I could, speaking French had rattled me more than it used to and I was now wondering if I had been as fluent as I thought. I also realised how incongruous it was for the headmistress of a religious girls’ school – I had seen several crucifixes on the walls – to quote Sappho. Luckily, they didn’t make me wait too long – after just a few minutes, Hilda Annersley came to take me back to the office, and they offered me several hours of teaching, with a more than adequate salary. I agreed to start at the beginning of next week and took my leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Yes - we have been through a dark period of history. Today is a new day, but war cost us dearly. All my condolences, Madam. Death is an evil; if it was good, gods wouldn't be immortal."  
> "Thank you"


	6. Chapter 6

I walked back to the village and decided to go back to my lodgings. The interview, as informal as it was, had taken more out of me than I’d thought, and although it was only about six o’clock, I felt as if it was midnight. I found my landlady in the kitchen, stirring something that was probably soup on the stove. Somehow, even though I’d been living in her house for several weeks, I couldn’t quite make myself “at home” as she had offered, and my first reflex was to apologise for disturbing her.

“Of course you’re not – actually, why don’t you have something to eat with me? There is more than enough for the both of us.”

“Oh – well – thank you”. The custard tart of the morning felt like a faraway memory and I suddenly felt famished.

\------

So her new lodger spoke French – and German. Amelia still didn’t know much about the woman, who seemed to make herself scarce most days. But when she had come in, it had seemed natural to offer to share dinner – the woman seemed exhausted. They had begun to eat in silence and when her lodger had blurted out she had found a part-time job as a teacher, it had come as quite a surprise. It didn’t seem fully in character for her – somehow she didn’t see her as a public speaker. She had quickly added that at least it would help her pay her rent for some time, but Amelia hadn’t been worried about that. Indeed, the woman had already begun to make herself useful. One day, she had found her standing outside in the cold, painting one of the shutters. And she had noticed that the rickety bookshelves in the living-room had suddenly become stable. More than that, it was comforting to know someone else lived in the house. She hadn’t lived alone for a very long time. At first, it had had all the appeal of novelty but novelty wears off and now she liked the idea of someone sharing her space, even though the someone proved rather elusive. She could hear her now – in the bathroom, closing her bedroom door and climbing into bed… Amelia put her book down and switched the lights off – she wished she could teach… At least it would give her something to do – but she would be terrified.

“Non! Non , pas ça ! Noon …. »

The screams woke her from a deep sleep and it took her a few minutes to realise her lodger was having a violent nightmare. Since the woman kept talking – and maybe crying, from what she could hear – she decided she couldn’t just lay there and ignore it. Shrugging on her dressing-gown, she went to the other bedroom and knocked gently before going in. She found her lodger sitting in bed, the blanket and sheets in disarray, sobbing uncontrollably and moaning. She couldn’t help herself – as she had done many times with Will when he was a child having nightmares after having been subjected to one of his father’s rages, she came to sit on the bed and wrapped her arms around the crying woman. The latter instinctively curled up against her and Amelia’s hand reached into the blonde hair, caressing her head and murmuring soothing nothings to try and calm her down.

\------

When I discovered I had my head buried in my landlady’s neck, I almost jerked it off but it felt so comforting that I couldn’t bring myself to. And when her lips brushed the top of my head, I shivered. I remained nestled against her for a few minutes longer before I gently disengaged myself. I couldn’t bring myself to look at her in the eyes: “I am so, so sorry to have waken you up. I – I don’t know what happened. I – oh God! I’m sorry.”

“It’s quite all right. Why don’t I go and make us some cocoa? I – I’m sure something sweet would help.”

“Thank you – that would be lovely. I’ll just – tidy myself up a bit and join you in the kitchen.”

I realised that I was sweating profusely and went to the bathroom for a wet cool cloth. I caught a glance of myself in the mirror and blushed – I still wore the pyjamas I had been issued in the Waaf and the top had slid on my shoulder, revealing most of my left breast. Goodness! I had been almost naked in my landlady’s arm. I put on a sweater on my pyjamas and went to join her in the kitchen. I hadn’t had a nightmare like that since after the war…

I found my landlady sitting at the kitchen table, two steaming mugs of cocoa in front of her. I bit my lips: “I do apologise, Mrs Davenport – I – I don’t usually have nightmares.”

“Call me Amelia – please.”

“Amelia. Right.”

“And stop apologising, Ms Wolfe – no harm done, really.

“You must call me Bernie.”

We remained for a minute or two. Then she spoke in a low voice, almost as for herself: “My boy had terrible nightmares. I used to go to him and sing – that was before my husband sent him to boarding school when he was only seven…”

I could hear she still hadn’t forgiven her husband. I never spoke about my two, but somehow I felt as if I needed to: “My kids – Cameron and Charlotte – they never went to boarding school – but the war happened, and we sent them to my aunt and uncle’s in Wales… And then – well, Marcus died, and I went into the Waaf, and… I – I didn’t see them again for several years. When I came back for them – it was too late – they didn’t want me. I could see they were happy where they were, they’d grown up without me – I didn’t want to force them to come back with me, especially since I didn’t have much to offer them… I sometimes see them now – Cameron is studying to be a doctor at Cardiff University, and Charlotte wants to be a journalist, of all things!”

“I’m so sorry, Bernie – that must have been hard.”

“I was selfish – during the war – I only thought of myself. When they came and ask me if I would help the war effort… Well, I didn’t think of the children – didn’t think I might not make it back, and they would be orphans…”

“But you knew they were in good hands…”

“Yes – I did.”

“You were screaming in French….”

“Oh – again, I’m so so…”

She held up her hand: “Don’t apologise again – I’m just telling you because – well, someone once told me that it could help conquer one’s nightmares if one remembered them…”

“Hmm – yes, maybe. Actually – it’s not that I don’t remember – it’s that I can’t forget.” 

Indeed, I remembered everything down to the last detail – how the air smelt that day – how the sun shone through the leaves of the huge walnut tree in front of Alex’s farmhouse. How I had arrive just in time to see the Miliciens – the French policemen collaborating with the Nazis - burst in and drag her out in the courtyard…And how they had shot her when she had tried to resist, shot her before my eyes and kicked her corpse for good measure, saying that it would be “ça de moins à nourrir en prison” - one fewer to be fed in prison. I had waited in the bushes until they’d left, but I had lost all hope that day. Three days later, I was careless and got caught myself, and taken to prison to be interrogated by the Gestapo. I would never forget seeing my lover dead in the dusty courtyard, bloody and battered – part of my heart had died with her that day. I had unravelled enough for the night though – and I couldn’t possibly burden my landlady with my past – I did, however, owe her some kind of explanation.

“I spend two years in France during the war – working for the English government – I can’t tell you much more about it, I’m afraid – it’s still classified. So – today, during the interview – we spoke French and it must have triggered something…My memories…” Now that I had begun, and with the horrific images still hovering in my mind, I couldn’t stop… “I lost someone there – someone very dear to me…” And of course, I had to add… “A woman – Alexandra – Alex – the Nazis killed her.” I held my breath and became rigid – would Amelia be disgusted by what I had just told her? After all, I had more or less confessed to a crime – men could be arrested for that special kind of love any day. Would she throw me out? I didn’t dare look at her. That’s why I didn’t see her get up and for the second time tonight – or rather today, as it was now well past midnight, her arms encircled my shoulders and she held me and murmured: “Oh, Bernie – I am so, so sorry for what you have been through. This is too much for one woman.” And for the second time today, I let myself relax in her embrace.


	7. Chapter 7

So her lodger was... What? A sapphist? That sounded archaïc. A lesbian... Or maybe she had misunderstood? After all, some women had very close friendships... She herself had had a few bosom friends at school – she would have kept them, too, if her husband hadn’t made her sever all links to them. She should probably be horrified. Instead, her heart bled for the woman, for all she had been through – even though Berenice – no, Bernie – hadn’t said a lot about her experiences in France, she could guess they had left lasting scars. She was happy she had been there for her the night before. The morning had been a little awkward, though – they had both gone back to bed in the early morning hours but she hadn’t slept, and she didn’t think Bernie had either, judging by the matching shadows under their eyes they had sported at breakfast. The only thing she had found to say was “Looks like a lovely day - not a cloud in the sky.” And Bernie had nodded and mumble: “Indeed – I’ll go for a walk – make the most of my free time before I start work.” For a moment, Amelia had thought of asking if she could accompany her, but she hadn’t dared and Bernie had been out of the room before she had thought of how to suggest it. That was probably for the better – she had a Woman’s Institute meeting to go to. Not that she was interested in the day’s speaker or anything, but it gave her something to do.

\-----

I fled – I had no idea what to say or do this morning. Amelia was much more composed than I was, and she was able to talk as if the night hadn’t happened at all, but I wasn’t good with small talk. So… I took refuge in flight – I went for a walk until my leg protested and then to the library. The Heads had given me a list of the books my students were supposed to discussed, and although I’d read them, it felt like another lifetime ago. Luckily, the library had a tiny but good selection of the classics and I had found most of them. When I came back in the early evening with a pile of books, I tried to go straight up to my room but Amelia’s voice stopped me mid-stairs: “Did I do or say something wrong?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I mean – you – well, since the beginning really, but… I feel you’re avoiding me…”

I looked at her and saw she looked genuinely distressed. I couldn’t lie – this wasn’t war, this was human relationships, and although during the war I had been completely able to pretend I was someone else – the ultimate lie – in real life… I was a terrible liar. I bent down to lay the books on one of the steps and went back down to face her: “It’s true – I have been avoiding you – but not of something you did or said – just because I – I tend to keep myself to myself, and also because I thought you might feel like I invaded your privacy if you found me in your living room too often.”

“Oh – oh, I see…”

She looked even more distressed now, like a little girl whose parents are going out and abandoning her to the darkness of her bedroom. I couldn’t bear to see her like that; “Tell you what – I’ll drop these upstairs and bring one back with me to read downstairs.”

She brightened visibly: “I’ll make us a cup of tea – and I’ve got biscuits – Miss Harlow made them – from the WI – she’s quite a good baker.”

“Righto – be right back.”

I selected les Lettres Persanes from the pile – if I remembered well, some of the passages were quite funny, and I hoped my future students would find them so too – and got back downstairs. Tea and biscuits were waiting on the coffee table and I poured us both a cup, adding a splash of milk to mine. Amélia had a book in her hands, too, and was curled up in one of the armchairs. I settled on another one and started les Lettres. I couldn’t keep myself from glancing at her from time to time. Was she disturbed by my presence? If so, she hid it well. After about an hour, she cleared her throat. I immediately looked up and she blushed.

“I – err – I’m going to make dinner – would you like to share? I mean – you’re working and… I’ll be cooking for myself anyway, so…”

I didn’t hesitate for very long before agreeing to her offer. Suddenly, I didn’t want to go back upstairs quite just yet.

\-----

**Five days later**

“Wie geht es Ihnen? Sie sind sehr blass…”

“Ein bisschen müde aber gut, Danke, Miss Wilson.”

“Gut – guten Abend, Ms Wolfe.”

“Guten Abend!”

For the first time since I’d been in Grantchester, I wished I had driven to work – it was only two miles from the school to Amelia’s house but I felt exhausted. My first three days of teaching – although far from being full days – had taken more out of me than I’d expected. The girls were all right – most of those in my form were prefects, serious and disciplined. They were nearly all taking exams at the end of the year and they wanted to work – in fact, my only worry was that I wouldn’t be good enough to teach them. When the two young teachers and the heads had explained that the school had German and French days, though, I hadn’t realised that they really meant it. As in – no one spoke one word of English on those days, even if some of the younger students mangled the languages quite a bit . Today had been the first German day since my arrival, and although I had had no trouble understanding or speaking, it had taken its toll and brought a trail of the horrific memories I had tried to forget since the end of the war. Even Nell Wilson’s kind words, uttered in a German faintly tainted by an Midlands accent, had sent shivers down my spine. Hiding my body reactions had drained my energy.

I had no choice but to walk home and I did, but when I arrived I had to drag myself up the stairs, my leg protesting at every step. The scars of the two bullets the Germans had lodged into it when they had arrested me seemed to react to hearing the language, too. I had been lucky enough – they had allowed another prisoner, a doctor, to patch me up – they wanted me alive... He had done as good a job as he could, but with no anaesthesia and almost no instruments...My leg would never be the same.

I usually tried to do without painkillers but today I popped in two aspirins and went to lie down immediately. I tried to bury myself in a book – good thing Amelia had stashed a pile of detective stories in the bedroom – but after two hours of reading, I had finished the book and not found sleep. I glanced at the bedside clock – two in the morning... I decided to see if a cup of cocoa would help. Hoping I wouldn’t wake Amelia up, I went downstairs quietly. I flipped the ligth switch in the kitchen and almost jumped out of my skin :

“Amelia! What on earth are you doing here?”

“Well, last time I checked, I was still living here...”, she replied, deadpan.

“I meant at 2am in the dark...”

She sighed: “I couldn’t sleep – I thought biscuits would help... Shortbread?”

I accepted one, even though I wasn’t hungry.

“So – what’s keeping _you_ awake?” I asked – I didn’t want to pry, but she was fiddling with a card in her hands and frowning.

Sure enough, she held it up: “This... I received it this morning and... I don’t know what to do. I’ve been invited to – to a soiree in London. Friends of my late husband... Or – mutual friends, I guess, although she – Camilla – hasn’t really been in touch since the funeral. Only now they’re throwing a diner party to celebrate their daughter’s engagement... I don’t really want to go, but – I don’t want to snub them, either – they used to be ...Very kind.”

“Then go – why don’t you want to?”

She bit her lips and looked down at her hand: “I haven’t – gone anywhere since my husband’s passing. I’m not used to going out by myself – I know it sounds ridiculous – I mean, at my age... But I just don’t know if I can. Anyway – it doesn’t matter. Enough about me – what about you?”

“Me?”

“Yes – what you doing up? You look chilled through.”

She was right – I was freezing. I got up and went to lean on the aga. “Nothing...”

She gave me a stern look: “Really?”

My turn to bite my lips... I didn’t want to talk – not really – at least this time I hadn’t woken her up with a nightmare, but... It wouldn’t be fair to burden her with my memories. She probably had bad ones of her own… “It was German day today at the school – and…”

She was listening intently and suddenly I couldn’t keep quiet any longer – I hadn’t told anyone about that part, except during my debrief at the SOE headquarters, where they had asked me to tell them everything in excruciating details… “They’d warned us, you know – they’d prepared us for torture, offered a cyanide capsule – but nothing could prepare you…Nothing can prepare you for twisted minds intent on causing maximum pain without killing. And of course – well, it’s so much easier to torture a woman… To…Make her wish she would die…” I didn’t go any further – the words swelled in my throat and threatened to strangle me. When she got up and took my hand in hers, I knew she understood – she didn’t need more. I swallowed hard a few times and sat back down at the table. She removed her hand and I felt suddenly bereft. After some time in silence, I mumbled: “I could take you – to London I mean. I wouldn’t come to your party or anything, but if it would help…”

Stupid! Why would I say that? Her silence was the only answer I needed. I was just about to skulk back upstairs when she smiled – and I know this will sound soppy, but the room suddenly felt several degrees warmer…

“That would be lovely – but I can’t ask you to do that… Why would you want to go back to London?”

“Hmm – I love driving… We could take my car, of course, or… I did notice the Triumph in your garage, and I wouldn’t mind taking it for a spin…Really, it would be no trouble at all.”

The smile remained, and grew even brighter, if possible: “Well – I couldn’t ask you to go to all that trouble for me and to wait while I go to the soiree. You would have to come with me. I’ll phone Camilla in the morning and tell her I’ll come with a guest.”

That’s when I began to panic: “You don’t have to do that – I’ll be perfectly fine waiting – I’ll find a restaurant, or go to the cinema, or…”

She put her hand on mine and looked at me straight in the eyes: “Nonsense! If we’re doing this, you’re coming with me. As my friend – because… Well, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

“We are.” I’d never wondered about that, but I guessed we had sort of become friends. “I accept then, if your friend says it’s all right.”

“It will be. Camilla, for all her faults, loves nothing more than being a good hostess.”

“All right, then…”

We both went back upstairs, and I fell to sleep almost instantly, a deep nightmare-less sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Wie geht es Ihnen? Sie sind sehr blass…” (How are you ? You look very pale)
> 
> “Ein bisschen müde aber gut, Danke, Miss Wilson.” (A little tired, but well, thank you) 
> 
> “Gut – guten Abend, Ms Wolfe.” (good - good evening)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so ... I wasn't going to make any pics for this fic, for obvious reasons... But I just couldn't resist, and I don't find them too disturbing ... I hope you readers agree with me !

She didn’t know what had possessed her – she didn’t really want to see Camilla, her insufferable husband Herbert or their horse-faced daughter. And yet, when Bernie had offered to accompany her… No more hesitation. She had to go to that engagement party. Amelia glanced at her bedside clock – four o’clock, and she was still awake. Good thing she could have a lie-in in the morning. No one would tell her she indulged herself, or she was lazy…Each time she closed her eyes, she imagined what Bernie must have endured in the hands of the Gestapo. She knew exactly what it felt like to feel powerless in front of a man. Unconsciously, she stroked her upper arm…Where her husband used to grip her to shake her…And then, usually, he would slap her a few times, hurling abuse at her, his breath reeking of alcohol. She would try to cover her face and keep quiet, not wanting anyone to know… And when he’d finished hitting her, he would throw her on the bed, tear her clothes off and force himself on her…Even now, when she thought about it, she felt her insides burn and tear as when under his assaults… Her own husband had done that to her, and she had somehow believed he had the right to, because she had married him. Divorce had not been an option – not “the done thing”… She knew the terror Bernie must have experienced… She knew what felt like to be treated like one’s property… To be battered, bruised and broken …To fear for one’s life…

\-----

In the morning, I wondered what madness had possessed me! Why would I want to go to a posh dinner party? It wasn’t my thing – had never been my thing. And yet I would have been disappointed if Amelia had refused my offer. She hid her vulnerability well under her frosty demeanour, but when she let her guard down… There was nothing I wouldn’t do for her. And I had to accept that although it would never be more than friendship on her side, I was beginning to care for her a little too much. After Alex’s death, I had let my heart shrivel and die, too. I wouldn’t have much cared if the Gestapo or prison had killed me. When I had parachuted into France, little had I known that I would meet someone who would become more important to me than life itself. I was still mourning my husband and I had jumped at the chance to serve my country. Our meeting had been sheer luck. I was supposed to have come to her little village in the French Alps to help my “cousin” Fletcher, recently widowed with four children. A few days after my arrival, he had suggested I went to one of the nearby farms to get milk and butter. A tall, gruff brunette greeted me rather shortly…It took several weeks for her to thaw enough to invite me for coffee inside her home… A few more for her to press her lips tentatively to mine, and then my surrender had been swift. I had never known such feelings before… Never known my body to respond so quickly to another. We knew we were living on borrowed time – she used to say “On n’a pas le temps d’attendre pour être heureuses” – we don’t have the time to wait to be happy. I had thought at first she meant because I could be discovered at any moment and arrested – I didn’t discover until later that she was helping Jews to escape to Switzerland… In the end, that’s what had her killed.

What I was beginning to feel for Amelia scared me to death, because it was nothing like it had been with Alex, and yet, it was so very similar…

Two weeks passed – the day of the dinner party was fast approaching, and we still had some details to iron out. Amelia had rung her friend – and I had discovered that “Camilla” was actually the Honourable Camilla Postlewaith and her husband an earl… Said Camilla had said I would be very welcome to their little “soiree”. Amelia had offered to pay for my hotel room for the night, because, as she had put it “I would be there because of her”. I had refused, of course, but I knew that if I wanted to stay in the kind of hotel she surely was accustomed to in London, it would put a strain on my finances I could ill afford at the moment. Moreover, I had nothing to wear. The dressiest thing I had was my Waaf uniform, and I couldn’t wear that, of course. I had slacks and two skirts I wore for work, but that wouldn’t do, either. Luckily, clothes rationing had finally ended last year, so if I went shopping, I might find something suitable.

Luck worked in my favour, for once. As I mentioned in the staff room that I would be going to London and wondered if anyone would be willing to take my class for the day, Nell Wilson asked if I had somewhere to stay. I didn’t want to go into details, but I explained I was going with a friend and we would find hotel rooms. She held her hand up and asked me to wait just a sec. Five minutes later, she came back with her co-head, who explained she had inherited a small flat in London from an elderly aunt, and would be very happy to lend it to us for the night. “It’s quite small, as I remember it, but there was a divan in the sitting-room – I used to sleep there when I was a girl and visiting him. It wouldn’t do for a long stay, but could be quite convenient for a night, don’t you think, Berenice?”

We had progressed to first names, but I had discovered that Hilda Annersley wasn’t fond of nicknames, so I was Berenice – in all three languages. Anyway, the offer was very kind, and I couldn’t help but marvel at the supporting atmosphere I had found in my new workplace. Everyone was going out of their way to be friendly, and although I tended to keep myself to myself, it was hard to remain aloof. Julie Berné, the other French mistress, who also taught needlework, had been overjoyed to discover that I had spent several holidays in France during my childhood not five miles from her hometown in Normandy, and I had had several interesting discussions with Miss Slater, the senior maths mistress, about coding and crypts. The offer of the flat sounded like a godsend and after checking that it would be no bother to Hilda Annersley I accepted gratefully.

Amelia hesitated at first, suggesting that maybe she could find a hotel room and I could use the flat, but I managed to convince her it would be a waste of money. Moreover, the flat was a stone’s throw from her friends’ in Chelsea. Now I just had to go clothes shopping…

** Two weeks later  **

Amelia looked out of the window. Bernie was checking the car one last time before their trip to London. No one had driven the Triumph since she had moved to Grantchester. She probably should have sold it, but she had thought she might want to learn to drive. Her husband has never wanted her to – he’d said she was too stupid to learn. Maybe she could ask Bernie to teach her. She looked in her suitcase at the dress she had packed and sighted – a pre-war dress, probably dreadfully old-fashioned. Pale green silk, which made her look sallow. She sighted – it didn’t matter anyway. It wasn’t like she wanted to impress anyone… She just didn’t want Bernie to be ashamed of her. Maybe she should have bought something new. But it would have been ridiculous – she had so few occasions to go out… She had a lightning-short moment where she wondered if she had been right to accept Bernie’s offer to escort her. Surely no one would have thought anything about her coming alone – after all, the war had made umpteen widows and spinsters. She had to admit to herself that she wanted the other woman with her – she would need all the support she could get, and Bernie had shown herself to be a pillar of strength on several occasions – she had an uncanny ability to offer a cup of tea whenever one was most awfully needed, and a sympathetic ear when Amelia had had a rough day, for example after a meal with Will at the rectory. Under the blunt, no nonsense and down-to-earth ex-Waaf officer persona hid a vulnerable softie, too, and she liked that in her….

\----------­­­

The Triumph ran like a dream. We arrived in London at lunchtime and went straight to the flat to leave our overnight cases. We found a Lyons’ Corner House nearby and decided to have a bite to eat. Just before we went in, I told Amelia to go ahead and find us a table and ducked into a tobacconist. I suddenly craved a cigarette. I hadn’t smoked since I’d left London, but I missed the comfort it brought. I managed to wait until dessert and coffee before I lit up. Amelia had not seemed overjoyed at my asking if she minded me having a smoke but she very politely did not object and I didn’t want to wait any longer. Over coffee – and that longed-for cigarette, we decided to split up for the afternoon and meet up again at the flat to dress.

A few days ago, I had decided that since I was coming down to London, I should try and see my son Cameron. I’d managed to reach him after several tried at the students’ house he was staying at and he had agreed to meet me between two shifts. Thus I made my way to Bloomsbury, where he was doing his residency at the University College Hospital.

The meeting was awkward – I loved my son, and I was almost sure he loved me back, but I wasn’t used to showing my feelings. We had spent too little time together. Evacuation had kept him and Charlotte safe, but it had gone on too long for us, and severed the links we had formed during their childhoods. When I had finally come back to England at the beginning of 1946, they had grown up without me, and I was no longer an important figure in their lives, more a distant relative. Our conversation was stifled, and so was the hug we shared at the end of our time together.

I decided to walk back to Chelsea – I had enough time, and it would help dispel the clouds of nostalgia for the what might have been. When I arrived at the flat, Amelia was already there, having tea in the living room. The flat was tiny… I decided to dress in the living room – at least there was a mirror there – and to leave the bedroom to Amelia. I was just fiddling with the bow tie – harder to get straight than a normal tie like I used to wear when I was in uniform – when Amelia walked into the room.

I couldn’t help a little gasp of appreciation…She looked – magnificent. I had to keep myself from staring at her décolletage – I had never seen her so… So naked before – and it suited her. She had her hair up in an intricate chignon and… I swallowed hard: “Wow – You look …Spiffing!”

\-----

Amelia blushed scarlet and looked at the floor. She swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly stone-dry. She had wondered briefly what kind of dress Bernie would choose. Probably something very modern – nothing as stuffy as hers. She had never actually seen her friend in a dress – only in skirts and blouses. She hadn’t for one second expected what Bernie was wearing. Her every curves were enhanced by the tuxedo, leaving little doubt that the masculine garment was worn by a woman. She swallowed again and offered her help for the bow tie…


	9. Chapter 9

“Careful with your head… Here, just lean on me a little and… That’s it – good girl! Here’s the bed – just lie down and I’ll bring you a little water…”

I should just have let her get back to the flat by herself… I should just have left… But I hadn’t – instead, I’d held her in the cab, helped her up the stairs and into bed. I should have known she wouldn’t hold her drink well. I couldn’t have done anything, though – couldn’t exactly drag her away from the party. That whole night had been a nightmare from the very beginning. I had thought it would be a large party, where I would have been able to disappear in the crowd. Instead, it was a seated dinner, only sixteen people. And from the moment Amelia had air-kiss the hostess and introduced me, it had gone from bad to worse. An exercise in humiliation. In cut-glass accents and drawing vowels, Amelia’s friends and their guests had proceeded to disparage everything I held dear. The end of the war was a blessing because women did not have to “play soldiers” anymore and could go back to being good home makers… “And those frightful uniforms, daah’ling – some of them even wore trousers…”. Anyway, one knew what they got up to…With so many officers around…Nothing I hadn’t heard before, but it still hurt. What hurt the most was seeing Amelia nodding and agreeing. Then, as I mentioned I was now a teacher, that too was considered a major faux pas… Not only did I have to work for a living, but “everyone knows what goes on in girls’ school, ha ha… those …Unhealthy aspects of community life… Women together…” And still Amelia smiled and acquiesced. There was nothing I could have said or done without playing into their stereotypes. So I bit my tongue and seethed in silence.

“Bernie – come here – please – don’t leave me alone – I don’t – I don’t feel well.”

I should just ignore her… Instead, I came back into the room and perched on the side of the bed. She had managed to unhook her dress but not to take it off completely. Her face looked as green as the fabric. I sighed: “Here – I’ll help you – one arm – second arm – good – now lift – there – you’ll be more comfortable.” Now just wearing her slip, she let out a small sigh and curled up on the bed. Even though I was mad at her, I couldn’t keep my eyes from roving all other her body. In sleep, she looked vulnerable – and delicious – like a trusting child, but all woman. I traced her breasts with my gaze, and for a moment let myself imagine what could have happened… What if she had not been drunk? What if I had dared say something?

But she was, and I had not. I went to take my clothes off, folding the tuxedo carefully in my suitcase – I’d probably never have an occasion to wear it again. It had been an impulse buy – I had wanted to impress Amelia – instead, it would serve as a reminder of an evening of utter mortification. Amelia had fallen into a deep drunken sleep and I wondered if I should just try to sleep on the divan bed in the sitting room as we had decided. It was, however, freezing, and that bed was huge… I shivered and decided not to be stupid – I laid down at the other end of the bed and covered us both with the blanket. Turning my back to her, I closed my eyes and tried to sleep.

­­­-----

She blinked and felt around her mouth with her tongue. Slowly turning on her back, Amelia looked around her – there was enough pale morning sunshine peeking through the window for her to see Bernie, her body rigid in sleep, on the other side of the bed. Suddenly, she retched and only just made it to the bathroom in time to empty her stomach. As she sat on the bath tub, holding her head in her hands, she groaned – the memories of the evening before came rushing back and she wondered if she could ever face Bernie again. She was just… Weak. Spineless. Her husband had always told her so, and he had been right. She should have stood up for her friend. Instead, she had said nothing – no, worse – she had smiled and nodded – and – oh, God, even added a few barbs herself. And consumed a large amount of wine…Bernie would never forgive her. She would never forgive herself. She tiptoed back in the room and grabbed her clothes – being semi-naked didn’t exactly give her confidence. Back in the bathroom, she got dressed, combed her hair into a semblance of tidiness and brushed her teeth, trying to get rid of the foul taste in her mouth. She then took a deep breath and went back to the bedroom, where Bernie was stirring. Bernie sat up in bed and her chocolate-brown eyes focused on Amelia. Under Bernie’s unflinching stare, she sank into the armchair and hung her head. She waited for Bernie to say something – anything – but the silence went on and she couldn’t bear it any longer. She gulped: “Bernie – I am so, so sorry. This – this isn’t like me – at all. I don’t usually – overindulge… Thank you for bringing me back here. It’s… Thank you.”

Bernie remained silent and Amelia risked a look at her – her friend’s face could have been set in stone. She had been hoping for a sign of thawing, but seeing none, she went on gingerly: “I could blame everything on the wine, but it wouldn’t be fair. I – I just – I don’t know – I panicked – I was afraid… I was afraid I wouldn’t belong anymore, because my husband wasn’t there anymore, and… I…”

“And you just played along with their snobbish, outdated, offensive…repellent views!” said Bernie flatly. “You didn’t think for one second that it would hurt me…”

Amelia buried her head in her hands. She choked up the tears that were threatening and swallowed hard before looking at Bernie again. “That’s probably the worst thing – I knew. But… I couldn’t…I didn’t…You’ll never forgive me… I’m so, so sorry.”

“Have you ever heard the saying “If you have to say sorry, it means you shouldn’t have done it in the first place, Amelia?”

This time, she wasn’t able to hold back her tears.

\-------

I stared at the blanket, chewing on my lower lip… I couldn’t bear tears. Also… I kind of understood why she had acted like that. After all, in a hostile environment, you did everything you could to survive. Could I forgive her? She was my friend – I hadn’t got that many of those. And… Well, seeing how my body had reacted yesterday at seeing her in her slip, I couldn’t deny that I would give a lot for us to be more than friends. I got up and went to stand in front of her: “Actually… Never is quite a long time… Not sure I can do “never”… But… you’re going to have to make it up to me – you’re buying me breakfast, for starters. I’m starving!”

She looked at me with such a hopeful expression in her eyes that I felt my resentment melt away. She stood up so quickly she swayed. I caught her just in time to keep her from falling and… Well, she was in my arms – I couldn’t resist – my lips found hers and I tasted peppermint and lipstick.

\-----

Amelia was so elated at being forgiven that she jumped up, forgetting her colossal alcohol-induced headache. She stumbled and would have fallen if Bernie hadn’t caught her. Somehow, when her lodger’s lips caressed her, a gentle yet insistent pressure, it felt so natural she kissed her back.


	10. Chapter 10

I really thought she would slap me… She would have had every right. Instead, she kissed me back with an intensity I wouldn’t have expected from her. Then she straightened up and walked to the window. “Bernie – you said you were hungry – I’m the one waiting here… You’ve got five minutes to get dressed or I’m going out for breakfast without you.”

Was this something they taught at finishing school? How to react when a woman kissed you on the lips? I couldn’t quite believe she was so calm. My heart was beating a tattoo and I struggled to match her composure. “I should be ready in three.”

I hurried into the bathroom with my clothes. When I emerged, she was already wearing her coat, hat and gloves. I threw my own coat on and offered her my arm: “Shall we?”

“Let’s”

We went to breakfast at the Savoy. Not the place for a heart-to-heart conversation, even if I had dared to bring up “the kiss”. The food was excellent, though – pre-war quality. I hadn’t eaten much the evening before so I did it justice. Amelia ate a little toast and mostly nursed a cup of tea. I felt bad about letting her pay… For all she had said at the dinner party – and even if she had admitted knowing what she had been doing… I couldn’t believe she wanted to hurt me.

It was only on the drive back that I dared broached the topic of “the kiss”. Much easier to talk when you’re facing the road and not the person you’re spilling your guts to.

“Amelia – I have to apologise, too – for what happened – in the room – I didn’t mean to – well, I kind of did, but it won’t happen again. Don’t worry – I just hope we can go on living together – err, sorry, not together, together, but in the same house – in your house, I mean. Good God – I’m making a mess of this…”

“Bernie – stop !”

“Err – I can’t – we’re in the middle of the road.”

She groaned and I could feel her roll her eyes: “Not stop the car – stop apologising! You did take me by surprise but…Actually – you’re not the first girl I’ve ever kissed, you know.”

“I’m not?” That took the wind out of my sails.

“Mmm – I told you I spent a year at a finishing school – in Switzerland. There was this girl there… Jacqueline… Jac – we shared the same bedroom. And – we were quite curious, I mean, you know how it is at that age – I hadn’t been told anything about …Well, anything. And of course, we weren’t allowed to go out with boys… So we tried it – just twice. On the lips.”

“Amelia! I’m shocked…”

We’d stopped at a roundabout and I turned towards her – she was bright red. I went on: “Did you enjoy it?”

The words rushed out of her mouth: “It didn’t mean anything, you know – we were just experimenting – for – for the boys.”

“That’s not exactly what I asked...”

“Well – I guess so – it wasn’t… Not enjoyable.”

I didn’t know how to go on, so I said nothing and concentrated on driving. I remembered my first time – how when Alex had kissed me, it had felt like a whole new world of sensations opening right there in her kitchen. The taste of her, the softness and hunger of her lips... I had been married for twenty-two years and I had never known that feeling – that feeling that for once, everything was and would be all right in the world. Like always when I remembered Alex, I tasted guilt and pain, too – I should have saved her – the woman who’d meant everything to me. And yet something had shifted over the last few weeks, and I had to admit that the woman sitting beside me had a lot to do with it. But even though she had not recoiled from the kiss, it didn’t mean she wanted anything more. And she wasn’t exactly willing to talk about it either – that was to be expected. My parents had probably been more liberal than hers – not that there weren’t any taboo subjects at home – I can’t tell myself they wouldn’t have been horrified to know about me and Alex – but... Being a doctor, my father had always thought any question worth answering. I hadn’t been raised by a nanny and brought to the drawing room once a day to visit with my parents for ten minutes before bedtime, like Amelia had.

“He invited me to the races – Ascot, next week?”

“What?” So we weren’t talking about kisses anymore, but I had no idea what she was talking about.

“The man sitting next to me at dinner yesterday – St John Gurney-Clifford – well, he has a title, but he doesn’t like to use it... he invited me to his box at Ascot.”

“Oh – oh, did he?” I could feign indifference but was all too aware that my insides protested with sharp pangs of jealousy.

“Yes – only it is not very convenient, is it? With me in Grantchester – I suppose I could take the train...”

“Do you want to go?” I interrupted sharply.

“Well – he was very charming – it could be a jolly outing.”

“A jolly outing...I see.”

My rather flat tone must have betrayed me because I felt her eyes on me. We were just passing the signpost for Grantchester and I gritted my teeth to avoid saying something I would regret. I remembered the man – one of the most... Opinionated of the lot. Thought women belonged to the kitchen or the drawing room. Couldn’t resist several gibes at the lower classes and everyone infra dig. And Amelia wanted to go out with him. I parked the car in front of the house and went out to open her door. She threw me an odd look but didn’t say anything, except that she would put the kettle on. I drove the car to the garage and went in with our suitcases. I took them both upstairs, leaving Amelia’s in front of her bedroom door and went to the bathroom to splash water on my face. I had to forget that kiss – it wouldn’t do me any good to dwell on it.

Of course, since she was much too well-bred to yell through the house, she came upstairs to tell me the tea was ready. I should have gone for a walk – to let off steam. Instead, I followed her meekly downstairs. Suddenly, I couldn’t bear the trappings of her class – the silver teapot, the Royal Doulton china – everything seemed to underline our difference. I hadn’t exactly been born in a slum, but I was most definitely middle-class. Somehow, in the chintzy living-room, the silver tongs sticking out from the sugar bowl, I longed for the thick mugs of builder’s tea we had in the Waaf. There was more than me being a woman – Amelia had never made me feel like I didn’t belong, but her social circle certainly had. And even if the two of us could make a go of it – her son the vicar would definitely not approve. And we would never be able to live openly in the fishbowl of a small English village. Who was I kidding anyway? She didn’t want me – she wanted bloody St John!

“Do you think I should go?”

She looked at me as if seeking my approval, biting her lower lip and sitting very properly with her hands in her lap. Her cheeks were as pink as her blouse.

“What has it got to do with me?”

No, no, no – rewind! I had no right to be so short with her – she didn’t belong to me. She was just – a friend.

“Nothing – I just thought – maybe – I don’t know – I just wanted your opinion, but… You still haven’t forgiven me, have you?”

“I have – really!”

Who was I kidding? I tried again, in a more gentle tone: “I have – really, truly. It’s just – well, I don’t know the man – do you want to go? I don’t want to influence you – you should make your own decisions.”

She sighed: “I know – it’s…I just can’t make up my mind. I mean – he seems like… Like a gentleman – a nice man. I don’t want to hurt him by refusing. It’s not exactly like I’m too busy to accept anyway…I just… I wish I could do something.”

“You do a lot, Amelia – you take care of this house, of the garden, you… You attend your WI meetings you….”

“If you mention flower arranging and embroidery, I’ve been taught both and despise both.”

“I wasn’t going to. Isn’t there anything you want to do?”

“I – I’ve always wanted to travel. Never had a real opportunity to…. My husband was quite the homebody. Oh… I’m so sorry – I’ve no right to burden you with all that. Don’t worry about me – I’ll be fine.”

“It’s no bother – whenever you want to talk, I’m here.” …Whenever you want a hug, too – or a kiss…or more…


	11. Chapter 11

It was a relief to get back to work. I could do with a little distance from Amelia. I even tried not to eat with her in the evenings, because it had become too painful. I could see that she was confused by my behaviour but I didn’t feel up to explanations.

Several weeks passed – I knew she had been up to London a few times, since she was very careful to leave me a little note saying when she would be back. Each time I saw the little square of notepaper on the kitchen table I felt a pang of jealousy, to which I had no right. Only I missed her terribly – I even thought of leaving. I had made friends in the staff room, but it wasn’t the same thing and although some of them were usually game for a round in the pub… More often than not I declined. I was even cornered by “the Abbess” one day, who was concerned about me. I just explained I wasn’t sleeping well – I couldn’t say the mix of languages still brought back unwelcome war memories… I couldn’t explain how when I escaped in sleep, I sometimes dreamt Alex was still alive…Or how during the most haunted ones I relived the tortures and the prison, the confinement, the solitude. And of course, I couldn’t explain I was pining for someone who would never reciprocate my affections. So I said nothing, and although her grey eyes seemed troubled behind the tortoise shell glasses, she didn’t probe further. I couldn’t explain, I couldn’t tell anyone, although whenever I saw her with her co-head, I really believed they were kindred spirits. But if I was wrong and somehow it got out – I could lose my job, and I had nothing else to cling to.

On the weekends, I still went for walks or drives, both of which becoming nicer as winter made way for spring. One Sunday, however, the rain fell so hard I had no choice but to come home quite early in the afternoon. Hearing someone move in the living-room, I decided to go straight to my room but the sound of sobbing pulled me like a magnet to Amelia. Nothing was her fault, and I would not let her cry alone. I knew that on Sundays she usually had lunch at the vicarage with her son. What could have happened? I found her curled up in one of the armchairs, her face in a white-lace tear-streaked handkerchief. I dug in my pocket, thankful to find a clean, although less dainty one, and held it mutely to her. She immediately straightened up and sat back properly, as if ashamed of having been seen in such a state. I wanted to take her into my arms and kiss off her tears. Instead, I sat opposite her and asked if I could do anything to help.

­­­---------

Why did she have to be so weak? If she had an ounce of strength, she wouldn’t find herself in that position, over and over again. She had got married the first time because it had been “the thing to do” – a good match, sanctioned by both families. The worst mistake of her life. And now – was she really on the brink of making another one? When she had told Will St John had proposed, her son had flown into a rage. Accusing her of choosing the wrong person again – telling her she must like to be put down at every opportunity. All but saying she was a stupid fool. And at the bottom of her heart, she knew he was right. At first, St John had been the perfect gentleman – he’d treated her like a princess. But overtime… She had to admit he had become more condescending and more controlling. Always telling her how to dress – usually by buying her clothes. Isolating her from her other London acquaintances. And…Well, once or twice, when he had been rather inebriated, his hands had wandered in inappropriate places and she had felt a sense of revulsion and panic. Did she want to marry him? No, she did not. But… Could she really make it on her own? The week before, she had dug into one of the trunks she had left unopened in the attic, trying to find some pre-war fabric she was sure she had put there during the move from the big house. She hadn’t found the fabric, but she had found something she had almost forgotten. A Leica her father had bought her for her twentieth birthday. She had always been fascinated by photography – she had had “a good eye”, he had told her. Her husband had dismissed her interest as completely useless, and there had never been enough money to pay for the housekeeping, the staff and the film and developing equipment. So she had buried the camera in a trunk. When she had found it again, she had tried to talk to St John about it – and she had found him as callous and dismissive as her late husband. Maybe it was a sign.

When she heard Bernie come into the room, she immediately sat up – she wished she was as strong as the other woman. She wished… She wished for so many things. She accepted the clean hankie mutely and tried to control her crying. And then, when the sobs had abated, she found herself pouring out her soul to the woman who had somehow become the closest friend she had. And when the hug and the soft kisses on her hair and forehead came… Well, there was no revulsion there, no panic – just a sense of comfort and…Something else.

They talked late into the night. About photography, and other things. About loneliness and companionship. About fear and uncertainty. About life and how it could be if one was brave enough…


	12. Epilogue

“A little to your right – yes, that’s it – now… Smile… And ! Marvellous! Thank you all.”

As Amelia put her camera back safely in its box, she looked for Bernie in the small crowd. Bernie had found her her first “professional” assignment. One of the young mistresses at the school was getting married and neither she nor her future husband had money to spare for a photographer. So Bernie had suggested her, and the bride had accepted gratefully.

She finally spotted Bernie walking up to her, two plates of cake in hand.

\------

It was a beautiful day. Everything had gone without a hitch and Amelia looked as radiant as the bride. I handed her a piece of wedding cake and smiled at her. “Everything all right, my love?” I murmured. “Everything all right”, she murmured back. I wanted to take her back to the house – I wanted us to be alone… There were things we couldn’t do in public… But I could see that she was enjoying herself, her eyes hadn’t shone so much for months… So I ate my cake and tried to be patient. There would be time afterwards. We had finally found each other, and we had the rest of our lives to be together. We were thinking of moving to London – or maybe to Europe. The school had a branch in Switzerland – we could go there. Amelia wanted to travel – we both wanted to be free of prying eyes. I believed we could be happy anywhere, though. I believed in second chances. I believed in her...


End file.
